“My garden here is a bit of a paradox,” Divan says. “I come here for peace and solitude, and yet in this garden, one is never alone.”
Argent looks to see that the servant has left, so, in fact, they are alone. He assumes Divan is speaking in a philosophical way.
“So . . . ,” Argent prompts, getting more anxious as their coffee talk meanders on, “is there something we’re here to talk about?”
“The unintended consequences of our actions,” Divan responds, as if he was patiently waiting to be asked the question. “Take, for example, the specimens in my garden. While many are natural cuttings taken from around the world, there are others that have a different origin.” He pauses to take a slow sip from his small cup. “There was a rather nasty Internet hoax before the Heartland War—you might have heard of it. A thing called ‘bonsai cats.’ A website presented a method of potting a live cat in a jar, effectively turning it into a houseplant. According to the website, the poor creature would grow within the constraints of the jar, becoming accustomed to its peculiar circumstance. People, of course were outraged at the suggestion, and rightly so.”
“Wait a second,” says Argent, feeling as if he’d been asked a trick question. “I thought bonsai cats were real.”
“Ah,” says Divan. “That’s the interesting part. You see, the concept was so thoroughly thought-out, and the instructions so precise, that people were intrigued—and what began as a sick joke became all too real.” He finishes his espresso, puts the cup down on the saucer with a delicate clink, and zeroes his eyes on Argent in a way that makes him want to squirm. “That hideous practice of growing potted felines—do you know where it first took root as a commercial endeavor?”
“No.”
“Burma,” Divan tells him. “And as the black-market business grew, it shifted to something more profitable. The organization began to dabble in the illicit sale of human flesh.”
Argent finally connects the dots. “The Burmese Dah Zey!”
“Precisely,” says Divan.
Argent has been intrigued by the Burmese flesh market since he was a child. Their unwinding practices make everything else look tame. There are stories of how anesthesia is rarely used, if ever. Stories of how they only sell a part of you at a time. Today they’ll take your hands, tomorrow your feet, the next day a lung, keeping you alive through all of it, down to the moment the last part of you, whatever it happens to be, is sold and shipped out. To be unwound on the Burmese Dah Zey is to die a hundred times before death truly takes root.
“And so,” continues Divan, “what began as one man’s Internet hoax not only became real, but evolved into the most heinous organization in the world. Here is a lesson to be learned: We must always be careful of the actions we take, for there are always unintended consequences. Sometimes they are serendipitous, other times they are appalling, but those consequences are always there. We must tread lightly in this world, Argent, until we are sure of foot.”
“Are you sure of foot, sir?”
“Very.”
Then he touches a button on a remote, bringing up the lights in the atrium. As the space illuminates, the plants grow bright and beautiful. Truly breathtaking. And there in the corners stand four large ceramic vases about five feet high. Argent noticed them before, but not what they contained. Protruding from the tops of the ceramic jars are four human heads. It only takes a moment for Argent to realize that they are alive, and the rest of their bodies are trapped within the ceramic vases, which taper so that the openings are like tight collars around the prisoners’ necks. Argent gasps, both horrified and amazed.
Divan rises and gestures for Argent to do so as well. “Don’t be afraid, they won’t hurt you.”
They are all male, with bronze skin and Asian features. Argent tentatively approaches the nearest one. The man eyes Argent with a sort of dull disinterest, a look that must be the residue of evaporated hope.
“These men were sent by the Dah Zey to kill me.” Divan explains. “You see, I am the Dah Zey’s only real competition, and so if they take me out, they control the world’s black-market flesh supply. Once I caught these assassins, I followed the Dah Zey’s own bonsai process as best I could with grown men, and sent the Dah Zey a nice thank-you note.”
Then he grabs a bowl of small brown cubes from the table. Argent had thought they were sugar cubes. “Nutritional chews,” Divan tells him. “I hired a dietitian to make sure I could provide them a healthy diet, appropriate for their unique condition.” He brings a cube toward the potted assassin, and the man opens his mouth, allowing himself to be hand-fed by Divan. “They put up a fuss at first, but they adapted, as people do. There’s a Zen-like peace to them now, don’t you think? Like monks in perpetual meditation.”
Divan goes from vase to vase. He talks to them gently as one might talk to a beloved pet. The men don’t speak at all; they just wait to be fed. Argent wonders whether their vocal cords have been removed, or if it is simply that when you’ve been turned into a houseplant, you’ve got nothing left to say. Argent is relieved that Divan doesn’t ask him to help feed the bonsai men.
“I have relatives who believe I should join with the Dah Zey,” Divan says, with more than a little bitterness, “but I refuse to ever become the kind of monster who would subject children to the inhumane practices of the Dah Zey. Their way is not, nor will it ever be, my way.” He keeps feeding his prize “plants” until the bowl of chews is empty. Argent finds his legs shaky and has to sit down. “This is a business, yes, but it must be humane,” Divan insists. “More humane, even, than your Juvenile Authority, or the European Jugenpol, or the Chinese Láng-Få. This is my wish. It is, I believe, a battle worth fighting for.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
Divan sits across from him once more. “Well, you have something important to tell me, do you not? I feel it’s only fair for me to share something important with you first. So we might be on even ground.” Then he leans back and crosses his arms. “So, shall we discuss your sister?”
Argent had it all worked out. He was going to ask for money before giving away the code to access Grace’s tracking chip. And maybe a car. He was going to ask for a supply contract with Divan so he could go out on his own as a parts pirate.
But Divan’s openness—it changes everything. Argent knows he should be horrified by the four men ensconced around them, but instead, all he feels is admiration for Divan. The man didn’t kill his enemies; he subdued them. He didn’t give in to the evil methods of the Dah Zey; instead he set himself as the world’s last defense against them. Argent realizes he can’t make demands of this man. Only by his willingness to give, will Argent receive.
“R-O-N-A-E-L-E-one-two-one-five,” Argent says. “It’s Grace’s middle name spelled backwards, and her birthday. Code that into the InStaTrac website, and if the chip is still active, it’ll give you her location down to the inch. When you find her, I guarantee you’ll find Connor.”
Divan pulls out a pen and pad, writes the information down, then calls for a servant to come take it, instructing him to give it to Nelson immediately.
“Once we’ve got a location, Nelson and I should leave right away,” Argent suggests.
“Ah, well—I’m afraid the unintended consequences of your own actions preclude that,” Divan says. “I’m speaking of that picture you posted of yourself and Connor Lassiter.”
Argent grimaces. He’s done stupid things in his life, but that may have been the stupidest—but who could blame him: He was starstruck by being in the presence of his then-hero.
“Your actions resulted in alerting the world that Lassiter is still alive, and has made tracking him down a race between the Juvenile Authority and our friend Jasper. Then, of course, there’s fact that you withheld this information about your sister from him, which he is very sore about. It makes a continued partnership between the two of you untenable.”